


Immersion

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [7]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Justin Taylor, Post-Series, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Brian moves to New York, he and Justin begin building a future together. This story explores their first few months in NY and how they forge ahead with this new phase of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immersion

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while now, pretty much since I first started working on Distance. At first I envisaged turning it into a few different stories, or maybe a multi-chaptered fic, but in the end it seemed to work best as a longer one-shot. If some of it seems familiar, it's because elements of it were also related more extensively in Tough Questions. I hope you enjoy :)

"I missed this mouth," Brian growls, brushing his thumb over the swell of my lower lip. His gaze is pinned hungrily to my mouth - at least, it is, until he kisses me, and the world around us disappears. 

I remember him saying this once before, years ago, after we got back together in his office. We were lying on the carpet, naked and entwined, kissing, and kissing, and kissing. I couldn't get enough of the taste of him. I had missed him immeasurably. In between his demanding, delicious kisses, I teased, "Only my mouth?"

"Amongst other parts," Brian laughed, looking ridiculously happy. I remember thinking that I'd never seen him that happy before, and then shortly thereafter, realising I'd never felt that happy before. It felt so fucking good to be back in his arms.

If it felt fucking good then, it feels fucking  _spectacular_ now. My mouth, the one he's missed so much, hurts from smiling. I wonder if his does, as well, because he's been grinning ceaselessly since he showed up four days ago.  _If you'll have me, I'd like to stay here with you,_ he said, grinning from ear to ear. If I'll have him - like there was ever any other option. What did he think I was going to do, send him back to Pittsburgh? Tell him thanks, but no thanks? I've missed him so much; it's been tearing me apart. Long distance is bullshit - it feels all wrong, being separated from him, waiting to see or hear from him, wanting him and wanting him and  _wanting_ him, and not knowing what to do. Fortunately, I don't have to wonder any more. He's here. He's staying. He wants to build a life together here.

 _I need to be in your life, properly in your life, and I want that life to be right here,_ was what he said, to be exact. He confessed this to me readily, smiling even more radiantly, speaking the exact words I needed to hear. We've been holed up in my tiny apartment for four days now, mostly in bed, mostly making up for all the time we lost during the months apart. Long distance is  _bullshit._ Maybe there are people in this world who can cope with having the person they love hundreds of miles away, but I am not one of them. I need Brian close to me. I need him, as he put it, properly in my life.

And now he is. I think back to our reunion in his office all those years ago and how intensely happy we both were that night; it pales significantly in comparison to where we are now. Even with him pinning me to the mattress, I feel like I'm floating.

 _I missed this mouth._ His words, infused with lust, are echoing in my mind. I wonder if he remembers having said this to me once before? I think back to that night and what I said then, and decide to say it again now: "Only my mouth?"

As soon as I've said it, I feel slightly silly for being so indulgently nostalgic. But then I catch the look on Brian's face; his responding grin is full of warm recognition. Nuzzling his nose against mine, he replies heatedly, "Amongst other parts."

Then he crushes his mouth to mine again and everything else ceases to be. It's just us, lying tangled in the sheets, mouths clashing together, Brian's hand grasping my hair... we stay fused together like this until we're forced to come up for air. Then he drops his mouth to my shoulder and starts kissing his way down my chest.

"I missed all of you," I whisper. I really did, painfully so - his presence, his company, his touch, his smile, his love, his everything.

"It's not a competition," Brian scolds in a tone that remains mock-solemn for all of three seconds before we dissolve into laughter.

Of course it's not a competition, but if it was, he'd win without a doubt. He moved to New York for me.  _He moved to New York for me._

Brian Kinney moved to New fucking York for _me_. For us. Four days on, and I'm still processing this information. I'm still wondering if it's going to work out. I hope I didn't force his hand, what with my angsty phone calls and all. I hope he wants this for him as much as he wants it for me; after all, I don't want him sacrificing anything on my account. That's not what I want us to be about.

He's still kissing his way down my body, slowly but surely, his lips now brushing over my belly button. I thread my fingers through his hair and gently pull, guiding his head up so he's facing me. In my most serious tone (ugh, I hate that it has a slight dent of doubt to it), I ask, "Are you sure about this?"

Brian gives me a sour look that just screams,  _of course I fucking well am, you little shit._ He moves back up my body and wrestles me, outmaneuvering me so my hands are pinned above my head. It's highly reminiscent of yesterday's activities. Staring at me intensely, Brian says, "Sunshine, we could really be  _something_  here."

Although every word is spoken firmly, they're filled with warmth and promise. Deliriously happy, I kiss him, letting myself get swept up in his nearness. We could really be something here. I can feel it. I can't wait to see just what kind of 'something' that might be.

*

After a week in bed, we agree we've successfully made up for lost time and that it's well and truly time to re-enter the real world. On Sunday Brian takes me to Kinnetik's new location in Midtown. It's only a couple of stops on the subway from the bar I've been working at, but it seems worlds away. 

"It's nothing terribly impressive," he warns, guiding me out of the elevator with one hand covering my eyes and the other securely placed on my hip. "Theodore was very insistent that starting out small was the best strategy."

He then unshields my eyes and lets me take it all in. It's not as spacious as the Pittsburgh office, but I would hardly call it small. Compared to the miniscule spaces I spend most of my days in, whether it be my apartment, my studio, or the basement bar where I work, this place is positively massive.

Clearing his throat, Brian grabs my arm and steers me through the various rooms, identifying which will be used for what. They're only partially furnished and most of the furniture is hidden behind boxes; "Cynthia hasn't arrived to coordinate yet," Brian explains, somewhat unsteadily.

Holy shit. He actually seems nervous. It's fucking adorable. When we've reached his office, he sits down on his desk and spreads his arms wide. "What do you think?"

I look at him: Brian Kinney, my partner, the man who moved to New York and expanded his business, for me, for him, for us. The office is small, and with all of the boxes everywhere, it's hard to tell what it's going to end up like. That said, it's not so much what it looks like, but what it feels like. While he was walking me through it, I got the very real sense that this is where Brian is supposed to be. Nervous though he may have been, he also seemed right at home. 

I step closer to him and rest my hands on the desk, one on either side of him. "I think you're going to do great things here."

He smiles gratefully. I kiss him softly, then say, "However... there's something very amiss."

Looking slightly alarmed, Brian demands, "What?"

I smirk at him. "We haven't fucked in  _any_ of these rooms. It feels unnatural, standing together in a space that we haven't yet christened."

"Christened?" He echoes, laughing disbelievingly. 

"It is the day of the Lord, after all," I drawl, snickering along with him.

Brian arches an eyebrow at me. "What would _you_ know about the day of the Lord?"

"Not a whole lot," I admit, grinning. "I do know that I want you inside me - immediately, if not sooner."

His gaze darkens and his arms wind around my waist as he kisses me. As I lose myself in it, I feel him stand up and lift me off my feet. Then he drops me back down and stops kissing me. Authoritatively, he says, "Well, Taylor, what are you waiting for? Strip and bend over the desk."

I kiss him once more, searingly, then agree in a low murmur, "Yes, sir."

*

Once Kinnetik has been thoroughly christened, Brian and I declare it ready to begin receiving its employees. Cynthia is the first to arrive, a few days after our pre-ribbon-cutting fuckfest. She instantly started working her magic. The space has been repainted and furnished, bringing new life into it. The boxes are gone, the office supplies have been organised and distributed, and vases full of fresh flowers have been strategically placed in all the right places. Now it seems intimate and lush. Apparently the finishing touch for reception will be a painting to hang above the desk, which is currently placed in front of a plain white wall.

"Right there," Brian murmurs in my ear, pointing to the blank wall in question. "That's where I want it."

I stare at the space in awe, feeling absurdly flattered. "Right there?"

Brian nods and kisses my cheek.

"Something colourful," he adds, "But I'm sure you'll figure it out."

I look at the blank space and consider the possibilities, of which there are many. Brian's right, it's the perfect spot, and the right piece will pull the whole space together. The wrong piece, on the other hand...

I nudge him. "You really want me to do it?"

"Is there anyone better?" He asks, coiling his arms more tightly around my middle. I wriggle deeper into his embrace.

"There are plenty of people who would be better. My friend Jade from PIFA would be good. She double majored in visual arts and interior design. She lives here now, in Brooklyn, she could-"

"I don't want your friend Jade," Brian says plainly. "I want you."

The longer I stare at the space, the more inspiration I find. Brian kisses the side of my head and confides quietly, "You named the company. You inspired the Manhattan branch. I want an original Justin Taylor hanging right there. What do you say, Sunshine?"

As I contemplate this amazing offer, Brian leans in closer and whispers, "I thought about that painting you sent me, but I'd rather keep that for us two... if you don't mind, that is."

My heart skips a beat. Brian has repeatedly and adamantly professed his ardor for that painting. Many a flattering phrase has been thrown around, including "your best work yet", "the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on", and (my personal favourite, while we were still enduring the long distance nightmare), "the only thing better than having you here with me". I'd rather keep all of that between the two of us as well. So I turn in his arms to face him with a big smile. "I don't mind. So this new piece... when do you need it by?"

*

The day Kinnetik opens for business, Brian wakes up at 4am. He's quick to shut off the alarm and careful to stay quiet, but he really needn't bother being so cautious; I'm already wide awake and I have no interest in dropping back off to sleep. I'm not quite ready to get up, though, so I lie in bed and listen to him shower and get ready. As he does, I envisage the piece for Kinnetik and what it might look like. Brian has given me free reign, which is as promising as it is confounding. Where do I even begin?

By the time Brian's dressed, I'm ready to get up. It isn't long now until he leaves, so I hurry to meet him in the tiny nook we get to call a kitchen. I take a moment to absorb what's happening: he's reading through a brief and drinking coffee, but more importantly, he's  _here._ He's in my - our - apartment in New York. The distance that had been eating away at me is gone - he's ever so close, and it means so fucking much to me.

I go to him and wrap my arms around him from behind, and bury my face in the back of his shirt. Brian laughs softly and pulls my arms tighter around him. "Morning, Sunshine."

I breathe in, revelling in the fresh, clean scent of his crisp shirt, the familiar scent of my almond soap, and the richness of his cologne. I hug him with all my might, surrounding myself with his warmth, pouring all of my gratitude into my embrace. He's here. We're together,  _properly_ together, and I'm so happy I feel like I could burst.

"Time to go," Brian murmurs. I release him and he turns to face me. As I help straighten his shirt and tie, he kisses my forehead. "See you tonight."

"See you," I reply, kissing his neck. 

Brian heads towards the door, picking up his briefcase on his way. As he opens the door, he turns and smiles at me. "Love you."

I'm stunned for a moment. He said it so easily, like it's something he always says, like it's something he's never not said. He still manages to stun me like that. I can see that thrills him - as he observes the deer-in-the-headlights expression I've assumed, Brian grins smugly. Then he raises his eyebrows, as if to demand a response. Feeling slightly dizzy, I reply whole-heartedly, "I love you, too."

Brian grins even wider, then leaves, closing the door gently in his wake. I go and fix all the locks and then sink against the door. My knees are weak. I start to smile uncontrollably. It quickly turns to giddy, helpless laughter. There is something utterly exhilarating about hearing him say it out loud like that, so lightly and freely. Somewhere, deep inside me, my younger self is doing a victory dance. My present self, however, is thirsting to head to the studio and paint. The piece for Kinnetik is suddenly calling me. I've been mulling over it for weeks now, changing tracks so many times I've lost count. But right now, I have an image in my head and I think it might just be the one.

*

As the idea continues to form, it grows and takes on a life of its own. That's how I know I'm headed in the right direction - it doesn't feel so much like painting, so much as it feels like I'm pouring myself all over the canvas. Although to be honest, it's more like a slow drip. The idea continues to shift and reshape, and the technique is one that must be attended to with utmost care. Meanwhile, weeks crawl by. I apologise to Brian repeatedly, but he refuses to hear it. "Take your time," he insists, waving off my onslaughts of sorries. "There's no rush."

After my fiftieth apology, as though to prove his point, Brian takes an entire weekend off work and we spend it together at home. At first, everything is blissful. Then, out of nowhere, things take a dark turn.

"This place is..." Brian wrinkles his nose, surveying our apartment with intense horror. "... I don't know that words exist for what this place is."

The honeymoon period is at an end, apparently. Not between the two of us, of course - we've been fucking all day, enjoying this rare opportunity for shared time off. But for Brian and our apartment (which I'm now sure he really only sees as _my_ apartment)... it would seem the honeymoon period is over and the age of disillusionment has begun.

"I'm a struggling artist slash waiter," I laugh, as I roll onto my stomach and grab my sketchbook. "What did you expect, something overlooking the park? A penthouse, perhaps?"

Brian ignores me, intent on making repulsed facial expressions as he walks around the bedroom. "How did I never notice how terrible this place was? I've been here for months. This was where we spent most of our time whenever I visited."

"The last few months have been busy. And whenever you visited, you were almost always balls-deep inside of me," I shrug. "That tends to distract you. You know, if you want to be distracted again..."

He's still ignoring me, even as I'm spreading my legs and arching my ass up off the mattress. Ordinarily this would grab his attention immediately but Brian remains fixated on his disgusted appraisal of our bedroom. Is my apartment  _really_ that shitty? Maybe Brian's standards are really just ridiculously high. Or maybe I've gotten used to these unadorned surroundings and can't see what Brian's seeing. 

I look around, trying to see it from his precious perspective. Okay, so it's not Britin. It's not the loft. It's a tiny hole in the wall with crappy furniture and peeling paint. The pipes in the bathroom are exposed and rusted. The carpet is about six different colours. The ceiling bears signs of water damage, with half of it flat white and the other half grey and blistering. There is precisely one window that stares directly at the brick wall of the building next door, and even then, the view is obscured through scratched, murky glass that's splintered in one corner. Yeesh, I wish I hadn't tried to see it from his point of view. 

Feeling somewhat embarrassed, I say, "I know it's not Britin, but it's something."

That gets his attention. Brian stares at me and intones sternly, "What did I tell you about calling it Britin?"

"Go right ahead and do it?" I guess, smiling innocently.

"If you want me to gag," he snarks. "I might just  _retch,_ actually, because I've never heard such a vast understatement in all my life. You could not get further away from _the manor_ than this place."

Okay, he's not exactly wrong. This place is objectively terrible. This place isn't Britin. But it's home nonetheless, and even better, it's affordable. I can rent it and still have money left over for food and my studio space. That's a pro that's good enough to outweigh all the cons. As soon as I remember this, the bleak surroundings seem a lot less bleak. I shrug at Brian and tell him, "Give it time. You'll get used to it."

"What has been seen cannot be unseen," he claims, like the drama queen he is. "This place is an absolute shithole. There's less room in here than you'd find in a matchbox."

"Jeez, don't sugarcoat it or anything." I look at him studiously, seeking inspiration for something to sketch. The muscled line of his leg stands out; I follow it with my gaze from his hip to his ankle, and start to sketch. Prioritising, I begin with the gorgeous curve of his ass.

"We need to move," Brian mutters. "Or I'm going to hurl myself out of that tiny window over there."

"It doesn't open," I warn him. "You'll have to go straight through the glass. I'm also not sure you'll fit given how narrow the frame is."

"It doesn't o...?" He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs sharply. "What the fuck are you doing here? It's ugly as shit, it's not safe, it's-"

"Again, I remind you: I'm a struggling artist slash waiter. I can't afford a classic pre-war."

"I'm fairly sure there's some sort of happy medium to be found between a classic pre-war and this shitstain." He saunters over to me and straddles me, kissing the back of my neck. "You could have asked and I would have helped."

"I didn't want to ask," I say, reaching back with one hand to stroke his leg. "I can't live my entire life begging for handouts."

"The only thing I've ever heard you beg for," he murmurs, his breath hot against my neck, "Is my cock."

"And your tongue," I remind him, which prompts him to trace his tongue from the nape of my neck to between my shoulder blades. "And your fingers."

Brian slides his hands along my ribs and down my sides. That's all he does, though, which is surprising. I feel him press his lips to the back of my neck, and then he whispers, "Let's move."

He's said that twice now - he must be serious. It's an interesting idea, I'll grant him that. Abandoning my sketchbook, I nudge Brian and he lifts up so I can roll over onto my back. Then he settles back down again, sitting right on top of my cock. Fucking tease. I place my hands on his thighs and ask, "How would we do that?"

He leans down and starts kissing my neck, covering every inch of it with light grazes of his lips. "We'd find a shark of a realtor and let them hunt down a nice place. Maybe somewhere closer to your studio."

I like that idea. I love that idea. But it seems kind of unfair, him offering to move us and not getting to be close to his office. "What about somewhere close to Kinnetik?"

"I don't see why that's necessary," Brian says, narrowing his eyes at me, "Seeing as I never leave Kinnetik at three in the morning and drag my tired ass onto the subway. Fuck, Sunshine, it's like you're trying to give me a heart attack."

"I know, I know; I ought to be more careful," I muse, massaging his thighs gently. "Especially since you are of a certain age now. We can't have your heart giving out, can we, Old Man Kinney?"

He grabs my nipple and twists it. "Asshole."

"Ow," I gripe, scowling at him. "Anyway,  _how_ are we going to move? I thought you were on a budget, what with opening the new branch and all."

Brian laughs, obviously deeply amused. "When I said I was 'on a budget', I meant maybe we shouldn't eat out as often. I meant maybe I'll survive in last season's Armani. I meant maybe I'll cut back on some of my more...  _indulgent_  habits. I did not mean that I'd settle for living in a moldy crack den."

"This is not a crack den!" I exclaim, shaking with laughter. "And I don't see any mold, do you?"

Brian scoffs. "First of all, it has the same aesthetic value as a crack den, so you'll have to forgive me for mistaking it for one. Secondly, I guarantee you there's mold in this apartment. I would bet my life on it. Which, incidentally, is what you are doing."

He cups my face in his hand and looks at me, very seriously. "It's not just that I demand better than this hellhole; you  _deserve_  better. I'm not letting you live here so you can breathe in mold spores or risk getting incinerated because the slumlord running this place has no regard for building codes."

I cover his hand with mine and squeeze it reassuringly. "I think you're overreacting."

He shrugs and climbs off me, going to grab his jeans. "You know what I'm going to say next, so I'm not going to waste my breath."

I do know. Smiling at him, I recite, "There's nothing noble about being poor."

He returns my smile and nods. "Or ignoring your partner's money and pretending to be poor. Come on, Sunshine. We can do better than this place. Let's go find ourselves a realtor."

*

It doesn't take us long to find a place. I'm staggered by how quick the process is; it seems like one minute we're apartment hunting, and the next we're moving in. The piece I'm working on for Kinnetik gets placed on hold; Brian remains unfazed. He seems too excited about moving to care. I am, too - as much as I loved my apartment, I'm head over heels with the idea of finding somewhere to call our own in the city.

The place we find isn't as close to my studio as my overprotective partner would like it to be, but it's spacious, with windows that open and absolutely no mold, and there's plenty of space for Gus. That's important to Brian - he insists on having somewhere for Gus to come and stay, and our pursuit of an apartment ends up revolving around that. He wants a room for Gus; I want the room for Gus to be just right. Since Brian has managed to find the most ruthless, bloodthirsty realtor Manhattan has to offer, we're soon leaving my code-violating crack den and moving into our new place. _It's ours,_ Brian insists emphatically, even though I haven't been able to contribute much at all. His version of a budget might be enduring couture of seasons past, but mine is a little more stringent. Feeling shitty about it, I apologise, but Brian waves it off. He's clearly not bothered, so I try not to be.

I'm soon distracted by moving, anyway, and marvelling at how quickly it all came to be. When I call Daph to tell her the good news, she says, glowingly (I can hear her glowing down the phone, I swear), "See? Everything's falling into place. That's how you know it's right."

I can always count on Daph to bolster my confidence. That same night, over dinner, I tell Brian what she said. He just smiles, then says, "Did you tell her how lovely she looks?"

"I couldn't see her. We were on the phone."

He looks at me critically. "You shouldn't have to see her to know she looks lovely."

I roll my eyes at him. "Sometimes I worry she's going to turn you, and you're going to go all hetero and leave me."

Brian shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. "If anyone can succeed in such an improbable task, it's Daphne. In fact, I'm getting tempted, just thinking about it."

He's evil, he really is. I know this to be true, just like I know he's toying with me right now. But I still jump in his lap and go about reminding him how absolutely tempting I am, and how absolutely, irrevocably queer he is. It works  _wonders._

We've been in the new place amongst half-unpacked boxes and muddled stacks of furniture for about three weeks when Brian announces that we need new sheets. The ones Brian had shipped in from Pittsburgh don't fit our new bed and the ones from my old place ('the disease-riddled death trap', as Brian has ever so affectionately termed it) neither fit the mattress nor do they meet Brian's absurdly high standards. So as soon as we both have time, we arrange to meet at Bloomingdales to shop for new sheets.

I'm waiting for Brian just by the bedding section, texting Daph, when Brian grabs me from behind and growls menacingly, "What are you doing here?"

I can't help it - I jump. He laughs, and as I turn to face him and grab two handfuls of his shirt, I protest, "You startled me!"

He grins evilly, then schools his face into a more stony expression. "What. Are. You. Doing. Here?"

I gesture around us, to the shelves upon shelves containing pillows, sets of sheets and duvets. "You said to meet you in bedding. Here I am, in bedding."

"Here you  _aren't,"_ he sneers, flicking one of the sets of sheets atop the shelf next to us. "What are these?"

"Sheets?"

Brian recoils. With clear repulsion, he stabs at the thread count on the nearest package. "These are not sheets. Now, you can either accompany to the  _actual_ bedding section, or you can go down the street to the hardware store and buy some sandpaper. You can lay it down in the corner of the fire escape and sleep on that. It'll essentially achieve the same comfort level as this shit, but it'll be cheaper."

My god, Brian can be such a princess. As he curls his lip at the non-bedding surrounding us, I slip my hands inside his jacket and press a slight kiss to his chin. Very sweetly, I ask, "You'd move all the way to New York and let me sleep on sandpaper in the fire escape?"

Brian stares at me and deadpans, "You'd let me move all the way to New York and force me to sleep on polyester?"

"Okay, your highness," I say, bowing. "Take me to the 'actual' bedding section."

He grabs my arm and drags me deeper into the store, where the numbers denoting thread count and price are considerably steeper. As Brian reaches for a set of Ralph Lauren sheets, I kiss his shoulder and tease, "Such a label queen."

"You'll come to appreciate my high standards," he says, smirking. "Quite literally. Blue or grey?"

"Given how frequently we need to change the sheets, I'd say both."

"Clever boy," he commends, pulling both sets off the shelf. My stomach flips a little; I daren't admit it out loud, but there's something about shopping for homewares with him that makes me nauseatingly happy. Maybe I still have a trace of Stepford lingering in me, after all.

I spy a set of crimson sheets that appeal to me and pluck them off the shelf. "I like these."

Brian nods approvingly. "You do look good in red."

I can't help but blush. He notices immediately, smirks, touches my cheek, and drawls, "Case in point."

"Shut up," I laugh, smacking his arm. "Do these all meet your elite standards?"

Brian nods. I hand him the set of red sheets and kiss him. "I have to get back to the bar. Corey will be waiting for me to cover his break."

"The bar," Brian echoes distastefully. He smiles thinly and says, with forced cheer, "Don't get mugged."

"The neighbourhood isn't that bad."

"I wasn't talking about the neighbourhood," he snarks. "I was talking about your lowlife customers."

"They're not going to mug me," I promise. "Or stab me. Or drug me and harvest my organs. Nor will they fulfil any of the other absurd, crackpot theories you've been entertaining."

He raises his eyebrows dubiously. "Run along, then. Remember 911 is speed dial 1 on your phone."

I roll my eyes at him and head off. I can feel him watching me and I can sense his concern. He's been on at me about the bar for ages now, ever since I finally allowed him to come by. Truth be told, it's pretty seedy, and the clientele are questionable at the best of times. But it's work, and work that I can easily fit in with everything else, for the most part. And I can take care of myself. Brian ought to know that by now.

*

As it turns out, it's not just the painting for Kinnetik that Brian wants my help with. As he continues assembling his art department in New York, he frequently comes home and seeks out my advice and help with drafts. We soon cut ourselves a deal: fucking first, work second. This proves to be a very popular policy. Once we're both sated, Brian drags his beloved leather binder into bed with us and I haul out my sketchbook. It never fails to thrill me when he asks for my help. Sometimes I wonder if he's just indulging me, but then I see the final product and it always includes my ideas or elements of my design, albeit more polished incarnations from his art department. 

"I was thinking more angular," Brian suggests, tracing his finger down the lines I'm sketching on the page. "Denser, too."

I adjust the design I'm sketching for him accordingly. "More like this, right?" 

"Mmm-hmm." Brian kisses my shoulder, watching as I work. He divides his time between peppering my shoulder with kisses and voicing ideas for what we're working from, both of which please me greatly. I love hearing him talk through his ideas almost as much as I love his lips brushing over my flesh. I love it even more when we're naked in bed together like we are now, huddled together in the middle cozily. I'm about to move onto the next panel when my hand seizes up. Pain shoots up my arm in throbbing bursts. 

"Fuck!" I try flexing it, but it may as well be set in concrete. Brian bolts upright and eyes me worriedly. He tries to take my hand, but I pull it back from him. Daggers of pain keep hitting me, relentlessly. I let out another string of cursewords. 

The worry clouding his eyes turns to razor-sharp suspicion. "What the fuck is going on?"

"My gimp hand is acting up," I snap. "What the fuck does it look like?"

"That's the fourth time this week," he says tersely. I try not to react to that, but my poker face isn't worth shit where Brian's concerned. He frowns at me. "Is it the fourth time this week?"

It's the eighth, and it's worse than it's ever been, but I'm not about to tell him that. With a poor imitation of detachment, I lie, "Who's counting?"

He sighs and takes my hand in his. "Fuck, Justin... how long has it been this bad?"

"I don't know," I lie, again, even less convincingly than before. Brian glares at me. I try to ignore it, but he's persistent, and it wears me down. "Since I moved here."

From the corner of my eye, I see his jaw drop. Furiously, he exclaims, "Are you fucking kidding me?!" 

"Why the fuck would I be 'kidding' you?! What the hell is funny about this?" I snatch my hand away from him. 

"Nothing," he says, icily. "Nothing is funny about you  _lying_ to me-"

Much like his temper is obviously getting the better of him, mine soon gets the better of me. Infuriated, I snap, "Oh, please, make this all about you. A good dose of your egotism will do wonders for my gimp hand. I bet it's the miracle cure I've been searching for!"

Scoffing bitterly, Brian jumps out of bed. He storms over to the bureau and grabs his cigarettes. Lighting one, he growls, "When were you planning on telling me?"

"You know well enough that my hand is messed up."

"Don't-" he pauses, takes a very long, indulgent drag, and exhales slowly. "Don't be like that. You could have... you  _should_ have told me it was bothering you this badly."

I ignore him and focus on massaging my hand. It's not working. It hurts like hell. Frustration starts to build inside me, and it must be visibly apparent, because Brian seems to relent somewhat. He sighs and comes back to bed, although he doesn't sit quite as close to me. "Forget the piece for Kinnetik."

"No!" I shout, tossing my sketch pad aside with my good hand as the gimp one continues throbbing painfully. "I want to do that for you. Besides, I'm almost finished, why would I stop now?"

"Then something else needs to give," he retorts. "You can't keep working yourself this hard."

"This is how hard I have to work," I murmur, echoing words I've heard from him a million times. "You know that."

I know what he's going to say next. We've been ducking and weaving around this issue for ages now; I pray silently for him to circle around it just one more time, but Brian isn't having any of that. Like a cobra, he strikes.

"You could quit the bar."

Instantly wearied, I retort, "No, I can't."

"Yes, you can. Give me one good reason why not!"

The arrogance embedded in his challenge angers me. It takes a hell of a lot of effort not to blow up at him. Clenching my teeth, I grind out, "I want to take care of myself."

Brian stares at me and gestures towards my hand, which is still seizing up painfully. "You call that taking care of yourself?"

I glance down at my hand. It really is worse than it's ever been, maybe even worse than when I first woke up in the hospital after the attack. I've tried everything to manage it effectively, but the long shifts I'm pulling at the bar and the longer spells at my studio are too much. Couple all of that with having spent the past few weeks unpacking boxes and assembling furniture, and there you have it: my gimp hand is barely functional.

Brian pipes up again, sounding less angry but as arrogant as ever. "Do yourself a favour and quit."

"I can't," I mutter, angry at him for continuing to push the point (as though it were that simple!), and angrier at myself for sounding like a broken record. This isn't going to end well. I predict one of two eventualities: either we'll go around in circles like this, getting increasingly agitated until we blow up at each other, or one of us will get fed up, shut down, and we'll spend the night sleeping in separate quarters. History tells me that these two are the likely eventualities. But just as I'm starting to resign myself to this, Brian takes me by surprise. He seems to have developed a real taste for that lately. He drops the arrogant attitude, shedding it with disarming ease, touches my knee, and says my name in an almost impossibly gentle tone: "Justin."

It not only catches my attention, it drains a lot of the anger from me. "What?"

"Can you do me a favour and look at me, so we can have an honest conversation about this?"

It's on the tip of my tongue to make some snide, petulant remark in retaliation, but then I look at him and I see how he's looking at me. His expression is gentler than his voice; it's full of tenderness and concern. The fight goes out of me completely. I turn around and face him, and offer him my hand so he can help. Brian takes it and starts kneading it, interspersing that with kisses. I very nearly melt. Why, oh why, am I putting up defenses? I let them crumble away to nothing, ease in closer to him, and admit, "I don't want to leech off you like I always do."

Brian's head snaps up. He frowns at me. Seeming genuinely bewildered, he asks, "Since when do you 'leech' off me?"

Quietly, I say, "Since we met."

He sighs sharply. "That's bullshit."

"It's _not._ I feel like I've taken advan-"

"Do I look like someone who can be taken advantage of?" Brian glares at me. "Every cent I've ever given you, I've wanted to give."

He curses, staring intently at my hand as he gradually increases the pressure his fingers are applying to my palm. "We almost got married. What's mine would have been yours."

"We're not married, though," I say softly. "We're not going to be."

"So? We're partners, right?"

He looks at me imploringly. There's a hint of something hidden in his gaze - is it fear? Does he think I'm pulling away from him or something? That's not it at all. So I rush to confirm it and vanquish his concerns by saying resolutely, "Right. We're partners."

"Then let me help you. Quit the bar."

As soon as he says it, I know that's exactly what I want. I hate the bar. He must know, despite the cheerful front I frequently assume, that I hate the bar. The bar is sleazy, putrid, and exhausting to contend with. I'm tired of the long shifts. I'm fed up with relying on tips from our stingy pool of customers. I'm becoming utterly depressed by how many of the other employees say they came to New York to become artists or musicians or actors, when they are all so clearly not. It makes me feel like I'm going to end up stuck there, too. Goddamnit, I fucking  _loathe_ the bar.

Still, I don't know that it's right for me to quit. Shifting uncomfortably, I shake my head and say for the millionth time, "I can't."

Brian scoffs - not nastily, just disbelievingly. He obviously knows I'm full of shit. "Why not? You could focus on your art. That's why you came here, right?" 

"Yeah."

My hand starts to relax. Brian draws it to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. "Let me do this for you. Quit the bar, I'll happily support you for as long as you need me to."

"I don't know." I stare at him, trying to figure out how I can possibly say yes without feeling like a total parasite. Then again, he has a point - I came here to experience the art world. The bar, with its perpetually sticky floors and distinctly dreary atmosphere, couldn't be further from what I'd hoped to find in New York. I think of the piece I'm developing for Kinnetik, waiting in my studio, annoyingly incomplete. I could have finished it weeks ago were it not for the shifts I've been pulling at the bar, scraping together tips to make rent for the studio space. 

"A man needs to know when to ask for help, right?" He taps my hand pointedly. "Now seems like that time, Sunshine."

I sigh and crawl into his arms, turning so I can recline with my back against his chest. Brian wraps his arms around my waist and hugs me close. I revel in his warmth, in the pounding of his heart against my back. After some time, I say, "I need to think about it. But, hypothetically speaking, if I were to take you up on your offer, it would only be a stopgap solution. If this art thing goes somewhere-"

"Which it will," he cuts in decisively.

That cheers me up some. Smiling, I continue, "If it does, as soon as I start making money, we renegotiate. I want us to be equals - I don't want to be indebted to you forever."

Brian kisses the side of my head. "You wouldn't be. What's mine is yours."

He picks up the packet of cigarettes and offers it to me. I draw two out and hand him one, then let him light us up. Brian moves back against the headboard, lounging against it. I lie down and toss my legs over his, staring at the ceiling as I smoke.

"Justin," he says suddenly, and softly, but very seriously. 

I glance at him. "Yeah?"

"About what I said about what's mine being yours..."

Now he sounds really serious. I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. "What?"

"If anything were ever to happen to me," he says, gazing at the glowing tip of his cigarette absently, "You should probably know that it would all go to you and Gus."

There's an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. I haven't thought about stuff like this since Brian was sick. I'm almost tempted to ask if he's worried about that again, but he's been so abundantly honest lately. I'm sure if something were going on with him, health-wise, he would let me know. Still, the thought of losing him sends a chill running down my spine. It's paradoxically joined by a warm flush covering my face; I'm touched by his admission, truly. I offer him a small smile and ask, "Really?"

"Where else would I want it to go?" He snorts, then sneers, "The GLC?"

I laugh and tease, "What if I take what you leave me and donate it to them?"

"Then I'll haunt your ass," he threatens, with a brooding scowl. As I chuckle, he smacks my leg. 

I reach for his hand and brush my fingertips over his knuckles. "That might be fun. It's certainly uncharted territory, and we don't have a whole lot of that left."

Brian laughs, then turns his head and grins at me, from ear-to-ear. "Why, Sunshine, how very sweet and innocent of you. There's plenty of territory we haven't charted yet."

That sounds promising. I lean over and place the remnants of my cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand.

"Is that so?" I ask, smirking at him. He returns it lasciviously. I sit up and move closer, so we're arm-to-arm, and hold my hand out. He passes me his cigarette and I take a drag. "Have you been holding out on me, Kinney?"

"I've been biding my time," he says, inching his hand across my thigh. "Besides, you're young... I didn't want to go all in too soon and overload that pretty little blonde head of yours."

"Fuck you," I laugh, smacking his leg. "Tell me what we haven't tried."

Brian takes the cigarette and extinguishes it in the tray on his nightstand. He smiles, eyes sparkling, and starts dropping kisses to my shoulder. "Better yet, why don't I show you? Go and grab my laptop."

As I jump out of bed, he smacks my ass, deliciously hard. I grin at him and go to fetch his computer, then bring it back to bed. Brian draws me into his arms, letting me recline against him again. As I start his laptop up, he dips his head and nuzzles my neck. "Let's talk uncharted territory, shall we?"

*

The very next day, I show up to work at the bar for the afternoon shift. As soon as I arrive, I can feel my shoes sticking to the floor. The bar's trademark stale smell invades my nostrils, making me gag a little. There are stacks of glasses and plates waiting to be bussed, piled high from the lunch rush; just the sight of them makes me feel exhausted. As I trudge around the sticky, smelly, seedy space, Corey whines at me incessantly about his latest failed audition and how few shifts the manager is giving him, and within half an hour, I have a splitting headache. A few faithful regulars come by and leave generous tips, but for the most part, I'm left with shitty pittances. One guy has the nerve to leave a crumpled dollar-bill on his eighty-dollar tab; even worse, he tosses the measly tip into his almost-empty beer glass, letting it sink into the swill. I hate myself for considering retrieving it. It takes longer than I'd like to admit to convince myself it's not worth it. Then I see Corey fishing it out, wiping it dry on his apron, and sticking it in his pocket. That lands like a kick to the gut.

When a customer spits on me for no apparent reason (other than that he's a drunken asshole), I hit my limit. I could be at my studio working on the painting for Brian, but instead I'm scrubbing a foul combination of gin, tobacco, and saliva off my t-shirt. Halfway through removing the stain, my hand cramps up and is rendered useless. Fuck this. _Fuck this_. It's time to ask for help. I swear, it's like the bar has conspired with Brian to convince me to quit. The silver lining (faded and murky though it may be), is that Corey almost cries with joy when I offer him the remainder of my shifts. With that sorted, I leave as quickly as I can, not looking back once.

I head a few blocks over to meet Brian, who is soon due to finish work. When he emerges from the building, it's with a noticeable swagger in his step. I'm guessing his day at work didn't include anybody spitting on him. Shaking off the bitter recesses of my shitty day, I smile at Brian and hold up the cup of coffee I procured for him. "Coffee?"

"Please." Brian takes the cup from me. "Aren't you supposed to be working? I thought you were at that shithole until late."

"Corey took my shift." I grin at Brian and add, "Corey's taking all my shifts. I quit."

Brian smiles and leans in. Right before he kisses me, he murmurs, "Good boy."

"That's debatable," I laugh. Brian smirks and presses another kiss to the corner of my mouth. I wrap my arm around his waist and we start walking towards the subway. "How was your day?"

"Good," he says, inhaling the scent of his coffee. "Better, now that I know you won't be rotting away in that rathole."

"You remember the deal, right?"

"The deal," Brian echoes, pretending to be utterly clueless. "What deal?"

"Bri _an_ ," I complain, tugging the back of his shirt. "The deal!"

"Right, the deal." He smiles to himself, then gazes at me affectionately and says, "As soon as you start making money, we renegotiate."

"As soon as I start making money, we renegotiate," I repeat adamantly, returning his smile. "I want us to be equals."

"We are," he replies quietly, taking another sip of his coffee. "This is good."

"Gimme," I say, reaching for the cup. He rolls his eyes, but hands it over nonetheless so I can steal a mouthful. "Mmm."

We head down into the subway and find a train arriving just as we reach the platform. It's peak and people are crammed tightly into the carriage. I end up pressed between Brian and the doors, which seems to please him greatly. He smirks at me, nudging his knee in between mine, pushing me closer against the door. Since nobody is paying us any mind, I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in, closing what little distance remains between us so I can steal a quick kiss. Then, while playing with his tie, I suggest, "How about we take the train straight through to Brooklyn? There's this steakhouse there that I think you'd like. We could have dinner, catch the train back to the bridge, and then walk home from there."

"Sounds... romantic," Brian murmurs, with a teasing smile.

"It will be," I say, stealing another kiss. Then I adopt a firmer tone and insist, "And it will also be my treat. I'm paying, and you're going to shut your damn mouth and let me pay."

He kisses my cheek. "Who am I to argue with that?" 

"Good boy," I commend, grinning at him.

He grins back. "That's  _very_ debatable."

"Indeed it is," I agree, laughing as he presses me further up against the door. "Indeed it is."

*

I have yet to confirm this with Daph, who is the expert in matters such as these, but I think tonight might just go down as one of the most romantic nights Brian and I have spent together. We're walking hand-in-hand along the Brooklyn Bridge, for fuck's sake, with the illuminated Manhattan skyline lying ahead like an oasis. Neither of us feel the need to rush; we've both been frenetically busy this week, with hardly a moment together. It's refreshing to finally have a decent amount of time together, so we take it slow, and enjoy the walk peacefully.

We stop halfway across the bridge so I can take a photo. I'd like to paint this, I think, and I want to be able to envision it perfectly when the time comes. While I fish my camera out of my jacket pocket, Brian leans against the railing and teases, "I'm surprised that didn't get pickpocketed during your final moments at that cesspool."

"Can we please forget the bar? I'm trying very hard to eradicate the memory of it from my consciousness."

He smiles and nods. I snap a quick photo of the skyline and then tuck the camera back into my pocket. Brian doesn't make a move to continue walking; he seems to be enjoying the view from his spot resting against the railing. I join him, leaning against him a little.

"I'm really glad you're here with me."

Brian frowns slightly. "You keep saying that."

"That's how glad I am," I shrug. "I just want you to know how much I appreciate this."

He glances at me, shaking his head slightly. "No, you keep saying it like you can't believe it."

"That's not-"

 _True_ , is what I'm about to say, but that would be a lie and Brian knows it. He cuts me off with a quiet, "Justin."

That's all it takes for me to spill. I suppose I owe it to him. Actually, I  _know_ I owe it to him. Considering all he's done for me, I ought to be honest with him.

"Before you moved here... I was worried..." I laugh nervously and sigh. "I was worried we'd drift I apart. Or that it would get too difficult and we'd give up."

" _We'd_ give up?" Brian queries, clearly having read my mind.

I nudge his arm with mine. "Okay, I was worried you would. I'm sorry."

Brian meets my gaze for a moment, then returns to staring at the skyline. "I thought about it."

Ouch. Even though I often worried that might be the case, I always managed to talk myself out of it, in the end. Hearing him admit to it stings a little. I try to hide how much it hurts. With the steadiest voice I can muster, I ask, "You did?"

He edges closer to me, so that my left arm is pressed flush to his right. "Ever so occasionally, I would get this idea in my head that you'd be better off without me. That you deserved to move on, live your life-"

"I want you in my life," I cut in forcefully. "I love you!"

Brian looks at me and smiles. The sincerity of it is comforting; the brightness, warming. Gently, he says, "Yeah, I get that now. But when we were apart, it was easy to forget. I thought maybe you'd be happier-"

"I wouldn't be!"

"Can I finish?" He raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug and try to keep my mouth shut. Brian kisses my shoulder tenderly and says, "There were times when I considered giving up. But then you'd visit, or I'd visit, or you'd call, or Daphne would visit with a present - although Daphne is present enough in and of herself - and it all served as a very meaningful reminder that I wanted to be with you. Want. I want to be with you."

"I want to be with you, too." I duck my head and admit quietly, "It hurt, being apart from you like that. I wanted to come home all the time."

Brian wraps his arm around my waist. "This is your home. You fit here, Sunshine. I see it, Daphne sees it, Lindsay sees it. If you ask me, that's the trifecta."

"It is," I laugh, snuggling into his side. "You fit here, too, you know."

"I know," he says, with immense confidence.

I gaze at him as he gazes at the skyline; he's so beautiful, and inspiring, and more than ever before, he really feels like he's mine. I can't remember a time when we've ever been this open with each other. I wonder, momentarily, what would have happened if I'd stayed in Pittsburgh, if we'd gotten married, if we'd moved into the manor. Would it be like this? I really have no idea. All of that seems so distant now.

I've felt guilty more than once for choosing New York over him, for letting him uproot his life to move here, for leaving behind our friends and family... but tonight, that guilt is nowhere to be found. I wouldn't miss this for anything. I need to tell him that; I need him to know how very much this means to me.

"I'm really glad you're here. I'm really glad we didn't drift apart or give up. It..." I struggle to get the next part out, feeling slightly silly. "It would have broken my heart."

It shocks me to my core when Brian eventually replies, "It would have broken mine, too."

I'm torn, for a moment, between recollections of a Brian who didn't believe in love or relationships, let alone broken hearts, and the Brian that's standing next to me right now, pouring his heart out. Before I can reconcile these warring perceptions, past and present, of the person I love, Brian surprises me again with another onslaught of honesty.

"When you sent me that painting, I realised... I don't want to go from being your fiance to being a stranger. I don't think..." he trails off momentarily, turning his head to stare at the water down below. I touch his wrist, just a light graze of my fingers, and it seems to prompt him to continue, "I know I'd survive, I just don't know whether it would be worth it."

Overcome with affection, I embrace him. After exhaling heavily, he whispers in my ear, like he did outside the rubble formerly known as Babylon almost a year ago now, "I love you."

"I love you, too," I whisper back, pressing my face into his shoulder. His hand comes to rest at the back of my head, urging me to stay close, stroking my hair comfortingly. "Thank you for all of this."

"Thank _you_ ," he replies, so softly I almost miss it. I hug him tighter and there we remain, in the middle of the bridge, holding each other, lost to the world around us. 

*

Two weeks later, I finish the painting for Kinnetik. It's taken me forever to perfect it, but it's finally there. Brian has been back in Pittsburgh for a week, and he's returning tonight in time for dinner. I spend the day making everything else perfect for his return. I buy a bottle of wine (the one he likes best), cook him dinner (lasagna, one of his favourites), and make sure the apartment is in pristine condition. I recruit Jade and Corey to help me lug the painting from my studio back to the apartment, where I stow it in the living room, right by the hearth. It will be the first thing he sees when he gets home, which I hope will please him. I hope it's what he's looking for.

As I expected, once Brian arrives home, he spots the painting instantly and gravitates towards it. I can't tell what he thinks, not immediately - his face is expressionless. He's studying it, scanning the canvas with intrigue. I've covered the canvas with bright, bold smudges of paint in every conceivable colour; they branch out to the corners of the canvas like flames lapping, the shades flowing into one another cohesively. The centre of the canvas is marked with a stark white K, much like the ones seen on his business cards and Kinnetik's website. As he surveys it, I talk him through it, explaining the technique, how I aimed for continuity with the rest of the company branding, and finally: 

"I was going for something elegant and beautiful, yet eye-catching and fiery." I lace my fingers through his and squeeze. "Like you."

Brian tears his gaze away from the canvas and smiles at me. "It's perfect."

"Really? I can change it. I can try something new."

Looking amused, he shakes his head and says firmly, "Don't change it. Don't try something new. It's exactly what I was looking for. Now, come here."

I let him wrench me into his arms. As I laugh, he picks me up and kisses me briefly. "Pittsburgh says hi."

"That's nice," I murmur, distracted by his ardent embrace. I kiss him again. He tastes like coffee and tobacco and _Brian_ \- I can't get enough. In between indulgent kisses, I whisper, "I missed this mouth."

Brian laughs softly, then deepens the kiss. I sink into it, immersing myself in his presence. He's here, we're together, and I couldn't be happier.

**The End**


End file.
